Celebrity Crush
by elizzabethavary
Summary: A particular chess player catches Mark's attention. Roger wants to know why.


This is for Toni because it's partially based on our roleplay~ hai bb! Chess mentions. *crossover ideas* Also for Inky because of that Mark/Freddie we never finished.

The rain began to pour down on the abused pavement, the smell of damp ashphalt filling Mark's lungs as he booked his way across Avenue B, desperate for the shelter that their run down building provided- most of the time. Making his way up the staircase, crumpled bills crunched in his fist he grinned to himself. Who would have thought it would be _so easy_? And it was his first actual profit from something he'd done with his camera- well, unless you count that photography contest in fifth grade. He doesn't.

It was his prize money, for being in the right place at just the right time. Even though perhaps he would have liked to keep the picture he'd managed to capture- but as it turns out, when angry chess players are caught on their knees in public, they're willing to pay.

Mark chuckled to himself before sliding the ancient loft door open, creaking under the strain, finding his roommate lounging on the couch in what was probably a drug induced haze. But Mark didn't care, this was New York City, right? He was just lucky to have a roof over his head. He shrugged off his coat and shook his hair out like a dog, little droplets of water finally getting his roommates attention.

"D_uuuuuu_de" Roger complained, holding the body of his guitar over his head, as if that would protect him from the assault of Mark's wet hair. Too happy to care, Mark grinned, practically pouncing on him and waving the bills in his face.

"Look what I got." He smirked in a teasing tone, sitting back and waiting for Roger's reaction. It took him a few minutes to zero in on the cash in his hand, snatching it and counting it in his head.

"Holy _fuck._" He exclaimed as Mark made a face and snatched it back. "What did you do, _whore yourself out_? Where did you _get _that?"

"I took a picture." Mark explained briefly, counting the bills again in disbelief. Yeah, there was definitely at least four hundred bucks in his hand right now.

"Come on. Seriously." Roger laughed incredulously, shaking his head, "Who the fuck would give you _that _for a _picture_."

Mark scowled, wrinkling his nose. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Roger."

"But seriously." Roger prods, grabbing the money again. "I thought porn was beneath you, Cohen."

At this Mark turned bright red, muttering something unintelligible and looking away, setting his camera on the coffee table, clearing his throat. "Turns out when you put famous people in compromising positions, you get paid." He pointedly decided to leave out the part where the aforementioned chess player held the camera over his head and threatened to smash it to pieces if Mark didn't sell him the picture.

Roger's eyes lit up, a slow grin spreading across his face. "You got a picture of someone _famous_? Who? Like, Kurt Cobain? Steven Tyler? Gene Simmons?" Mark grinned, practically bouncing with excitement.

"Freddie Trumper. And Anatoly Sergievsky. In an alley." Roger stared back blankly, blinking.

"The fuck are they? Shit Mark, I thought you got something cool." He rolled his eyes, leaning back against the arm of the couch.

"_Chess players,_ Roger. World Champions, actually." He nodded affirmatively as if this was a very important matter. Roger made a face, plucking his guitar again aimlessly.

"Since when did you give a fuck about chess? I thought it was all directors and movie stars for you.""I played in middle school." He offered, blushing. "But it was _Freddie Trumper, _Roger. Freddie. Trumper."

"What's so important about him? Anyone can move some pieces on a board and call themselves world champions." Roger reasoned, not really interested in the conversation anymore, plucking out the start of Musettas Waltz.

Mark gaped, apparently offended by this accusation. "It's Freddie Trumper, Roger. He's just so-" He cut off, making a happy noise in the back of his throat, the thought of the white clad man on his knees making him shiver. Roger noticed this, cocking an eyebrow and making an obnoxious throat clearing noise.

"Who cares?""I care!" Mark jumped up, placing his hands on his hips, pouting. Roger snickered.

"_Someone's _got a celebrity crush."

"Fuck you." Mark grimaced as Roger shifted closer, hand on his shoulder making his stomach twist in knots.

"You dooooo." He singsonged, getting irritatingly closer, determined to get it out of him. "Admit it, Marky. You _looooove _him."

"Fuck off, Roger." Now an ungodly shade of red, he shifted away, stumbling backwards.

"C'mon. What is it about this guy? I bet he can move the pieces better off the board, if you know what I'm saying." He winked, making a crude gesture. Mark choked.

"I do _not."_

"What is it about him? Come _on._" He whined, poking him in he cheek, amused that he's getting to him before Mark snapped, sending him stumbling backward.

"He looks like you, okay? That's why I like him. He reminds me of _you!_"

There was an awkward silent moment, unnerving silence creeping down Mark's throat and choking him, blushing hotly, looking for any escape from this traumatic situation. Roger looked dumbstruck, opening his mouth and closing it several times, making a range of squeaks before muttering under his breath, snatching up his leather coat and hightailing it out of the loft as fast as he could, apparently disregarding the pouring rain outside.

Mark groped after him as if that would save the situation, utterly humiliated, wincing at the slam of the door.

Well. That could have gone better.

He pouted and took a seat beside his camera, toying with the handle distractedly. _He didn't even get to keep the picture. _

However, closing his eyes and letting his mouth fall open a bit, he can see it perfectly in his mind, the chess player's jaw taut and lips stretched around his companion's appendage. Hell if that wasn't going to fuel his fantasies for a few years _at least. _

_He slid a hand down his chest, cracking an eye open to glance at the door. Well, since this thing- not crush- on Roger is clearly going nowhere… He licked his chapped lips, an image of the white clad man coming to the forefront of his mind. Choppy brown hair, gorgeous teal eyes, muscular build, his arrogant stance- notably the same one Roger gets when he's on stage, his voice low and husky from the music. He shuddered, finally wrapping a hand around his half hard member._

_It doesn't count. It's not like he was thinking of Roger. _

_Not really, anyway._


End file.
